


Rekindled

by AmphigoricSymphony, DemonicSymphony



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom John Watson, Dom/sub, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Past Abuse, Sub Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:58:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3297704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmphigoricSymphony/pseuds/AmphigoricSymphony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicSymphony/pseuds/DemonicSymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John practically grew up together even though Sherlock was several years younger. John was often at the Holmes house on holiday from Eton with Mycroft... After a falling out three years ago, neither of them have spoken.  This is what happens when they finally find themselves speaking again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More tags to be added with the second chapter.

The compact blond cracked his neck as he peered over a set of human remains, blue eyes narrowed. He probed the body with a gloved hand for a moment before standing up and snapping off his gloves. "Right then." A small grunt sounded as he rolled his shoulder and he turned to the detective standing beside him.

"Body's been here at least four days given decomposition and the weather we've been having. I'll call Molly and tell her to expect me. I want to assist on the autopsy. Likely stabbing but I won't know for sure until I can see if those ligature marks around the neck did it first. So much blood though, Greg... Bled out. But don't write it up until I've processed him."

Greg Lestrade nodded and then shook his head, silvering hair catching in the light. "Oh, if you ah, want to cancel dinner with Mycroft and I, better find an excuse now, John."

"Doctor Watson!" A voice called out from behind the tape and John looked up. 

"Christ, it's that bloody Daily Mail reporter again. Can't she take a hint?" John rolled his eyes and looked back to Greg. "Anyhow, I like dinners at yours. Why would I cancel?"

Wincing, Greg cleared his throat and mumbled, "Sherlock's staying with us."

John's brows shot up. "You mean to tell me Sherlock's _living with Mycroft_?"

Greg rubbed the back of his neck. "Why do you think I've asked you 'round to the pub so much? I've been trying to figure out how to tell you. He's- He's clean, been clean but, well, he's lost three jobs in a row. Can't keep a flat because he can't keep a job."

"God. No, we're both adults. We shagged once after I got home from that year of identifying remains in Afghanistan and he told me to fuck off the morning after." 

John shrugged. "I'm a grown man, I enjoy spending time with you both, Sherlock's not going to run me off."

"Well, he was using then," Greg interjected. "He's changed. I think he's depressed but trying to get him to talk-"

John held up a hand. "If Sherlock wants to talk to me, that's fine. I'll be 'round for dinner tonight."

Greg smiled and shook John's hand. "See you then."

John gave a wave and headed off to do his work. The autopsy went as well as could be expected. Molly was as helpful as ever. When it was over he headed home to have a shower and put on one of his nice suits.

After showering and dressing, John preened a bit in the mirror and then scoffed at himself.

"Come off it, Watson."

He drove to Greg and Mycroft's house, humming along with the radio as he went. When he pulled up, he was shown in the door and his coat taken before being taken to the sitting room where Mycroft and Greg waited. 

A picture sitting on the mantel always made him smile and he nodded to it as they picked up drinks. "I can't believe you still have that damned thing."

Mycroft looked over to it. "Well, we did look rather dashing in our tuxedos."

John snorted. "For about five seconds longer than that when we upset the punch bowl trying to add alcohol to it."

Greg looked up in mock horror. "What on Earth _did_ they teach you two at Eton?"

"How to bully tailors and handle walking sticks," Sherlock drawled from the doorway, clad in cotton trousers and a well worn hoodie from Oxford. He leaned with his shoulder against the door, ignoring all in the room save for John. 

That voice drew John's attention as it always had and he looked up to Sherlock. A small smile turned the corner of his mouth up. "Not that you've ever taken advantage of the ability to bully tailors." There was a gentle tease to his tone, warmth in it despite their rocky past. 

"Hello, Sherlock. It's nice to see you."

Sherlock brushed the greeting off, speaking in his most disinterested tone. "I'll leave you lot to whatever ruminating about it is you have planned. Do try to leave some of the brandy, the help get irritable without it."

"Sherlock-" John set his glass down and smiled to Greg and Mycroft. "Apologies gentlemen. I should have taken into consideration how Sherlock might feel having me invade his home. Come 'round for dinner next Friday." 

He looked back up to Sherlock. "All of you." There was a small pause as he tamped down whatever else he'd been about to say.

Greg made a small noise of protest and looked between John and Sherlock before looking over to Mycroft with a helpless shrug.

Sherlock paused in the doorway, staring at his brother, who looked quite irritated with him. "This isn't my home. I'm ever reminded that I'm a temporary occupant. Stay, have your drinks, you've spent more time getting ready to come than you've actually been here."

Greg kept silent, a bit surprised at Sherlock's behavior. "Well come have a drink then if you're being so hospitable," he answered with a smirk, only to watch Sherlock vanish out of the doorway.

"Should have seen that one coming." John muttered as he took another sip of his drink and looked around the room. "Apologies." He stared at the fire after a moment.

Mycroft's voice was quiet. "You have no need to apologize, John. He mistakes my urging him to get a job and on his feet as as something other than care. I am not well-versed in the art of comfort... I do what I know and that, perhaps, is not what Sherlock needs right now."

"What happened?" John asked as he looked back up.

Greg shook his head. "We're not sure. We don't know if something major happened or if he's simply depressed... not that depression is a simple thing-"

John held up his hand. "No, Greg, I know what you mean." He scrubbed the hand over his face.

Mycroft watched John for a moment. "You might have more success. Perhaps I could convince you to take him up a tray? You're the only one who could get him to eat after Redbeard."

"Absolutely." John cleared his throat. "Ah- I mean, yes. I will."

Greg's mouth twitched at the way John jumped at the chance. He moved to his feet and beckoned John with him. "Come on. Cookie's got his favorites."

\---

Sherlock took himself to the room Mycroft had set him up in, pacing for a few minutes before throwing his hands in the air and sliding into bed. Despite being in his early thirties, he felt every bit the teenager shunned to his room while the adults gathered.

John looked bloody fantastic, damn him.

Sherlock pulled the hood over his head and crossed his arms, angry with how affected he was.

Twenty minutes later found John knocking on Sherlock's door.

Sherlock nearly ignored the knock, but it had a new and different quality to it. Puzzled, he got up out of bed, still buried in his hoodie, the lights off, and opened the door.

Polished shoes countered his bare feet. "John," he murmured before looking up at him, eyes focused on the tray. He immediately deflated, starting to shut the door.

"You're better than running errands for my brother, John. Do me the favor of telling him I ate that."

John stuck a foot in the door. "Mycroft might have suggested it, but I'm not here for him. If you'd bother to use that brain of yours to take a second look, there's enough for two on here. Thought you might like some company." He watched Sherlock, keeping his foot firmly planted against the bottom of the door.

Sherlock stopped, but did not turn around. "I'm not a patient, John. At least not now. You came for the company downstairs."

"You-" John stared at Sherlock's back, his voice hoarser than he would have liked. "You were never a patient to me, Sherlock. A friend, a damn good one. A lover, once. How many letters did we write? How many, Sherlock? Hundreds between the handwritten ones and email. Who did I call when I was in Afghanistan? Sure as hell wasn't Harry or Clara. Only time I called Mycroft is when you disappeared and I was worried. It wasn't until you kicked me ou-” John took a deep breath. 

“You know what? I still live on Baker Street. I don't know what you're going through... But I still care."

Sherlock let go of the door, letting John in if he wanted. "I'm not answering for that, if that's what you want, John. Not today. Come in if you like."

John's shoulders relaxed in relief as he moved into the room, navigating to the desk in the darkened room. He set the tray aside and turned to face Sherlock. "I'm not here to press. I'm just here to be your friend. Whatever you need, Sherlock. Always."

Sherlock stared at John fit a full minute before speaking, no small hint of suspicion. "Why?"

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock. Did you really think tossing me out on my arse the morning after we had sex would make me hate you? I was angry. I was hurt. Jesus, that stung. But really, do you think I'm going to let you throw away that many years of friendship? I should have seen it. Should have known you were coked out of your head but. I was drunk and then hungover. A year of identifying bits of men too young to die." John shrugged. "Wasn't myself either.” 

He looked back up at Sherlock. "I've known you since you were seven years old, Sherlock. One shitty moment in all those years fueled by neither of us being right in the head at the time, fuck, it shouldn't be enough to throw all that away."

Sherlock stopped down to the edge of his bed, looking at his toes and saying nothing. Eventually he motioned to the empty desk without looking up, indicating John should sit.

He wrung his hands absently in his lap, toes curling and relaxing again and again. Finally he spoke, focused on John's shoes. "Detective work. Thought you'd come back to something quiet."

John looked up from his seat at the desk, tilting his head, his mouth set somewhere between amused and a smirk. His brows rose fractionally. He licked over his bottom lip and chuckled. "How much trouble did I get myself into at Eton, Sherlock? How many times did Mycroft have to be clever and help me?"

He shook his head, growing somber for a moment. "Too quiet when I got home. Felt like everything was closing in. Helping Greg out, and the others. It's a nice balance."

Sherlock shook his head and smiled to himself. "Not even war took it out of you," he hummed, "not a surprise."

He finally glanced up at John. "Your company is a marked improvement from my brother's."

A small smirk lit up John's face and he winked, pouring Sherlock a cup of tea and dressing it just the way Sherlock preferred before handing it over. "At least drink up. I always was a better conversationalist than Mycroft. And prettier too."

"Vain," Sherlock mumbled around the tea cup, sipping at it. "Though correct," he added after a moment. Taking the time, he finally properly looked John over.

"Royalties from those artery clamps you designed have been treating you well,” Sherlock murmured as he observed the bespoke suit in a fabric he knew cost an exorbitant amount.

"They pay the bills. You know, if you're not comfortable here, I bought Mrs. Hudson out. I don't have tenants. Fixed C up about a year ago for Harry and Clara for when they come to town but they've never stayed. Bloody idiots would rather stay in a hotel. 'Course I won't serve them tea or let Mrs. Hudson wait on them." John shrugged. "Or there's the bedroom upstairs."

 _Or mine._ He brushed the thought away. _Christ, John. You've barely spoken to him in three years. Get your head out of your arse._

Sherlock nearly choked on his tea. He looked up at John, almost as if he'd seen a ghost, and blinked slowly.

"I… John- you-" he was suddenly picking at his arm over his hoodie, looking lost and a bit scattered. "I'm- that could not possibly- Mrs. Hudson is with you? I don't... I- John did Mycroft ask you to do this?"

"Of course he didn't. Bastard would probably threaten to shoot me if he knew I was up here offering." John rolled his eyes at the look Sherlock gave him. "Don't give me that look. I know very well he did field work and where at least five guns are hidden in this house." He paused and cleared his throat. 

"Mrs. Hudson lives in A. I live in B... C's empty as is the bedroom upstairs in B..." John winced when he shrugged and clicked his tongue as he rubbed his shoulder.

Sherlock's eyes dropped to John's shoulder as a bit of color left his face. "Still bothers you. I'd have expected it healed by now."

"Oh, that's right- I had the second surgery to remove the rest. A couple pieces were lodged near some nerves. Worth the pain to not risk losing movement." John explained as he sipped his tea. "Overused it today. Moved some boxes for Mrs. Hudson, then the guy we did today was- well he was big."

Sherlock nodded, though he could not look at John. He'd seen, of course, that one night that had brought their relationship to its knees. Or perhaps Sherlock to his, he wasn’t quite sure which it had been. He found himself wanting to wrap around John, to hold onto him and not let go. 

"I'm going to bed," he said abruptly, his voice far less sure than it had been.

John took a deep breath to argue. He let it out slowly. John reached up and gently tugged the hood back before pressing a kiss to Sherlock's temple. "Offer stands. Both for calling and for coming to stay. As long as you need, Sherlock. Always. Try to eat something for me, please." He he stood and ruffled Sherlock's curls in a tender touch. "Coffee tomorrow? Two? Unless I'm elbow deep in an emergency for Greg?"

Sherlock scrubbed the back of his neck, looking at John for a moment. "Coffee. Okay. I'll- yes, we can do that."

"Good. I'll pick you up at two. Goodnight, Sherlock." John slipped out of the room and eased the door shut. A few minutes later found him joining Mycroft and Greg in the den. 

"Think I'm headed home, gentlemen. But I'll be by to pick up Sherlock for coffee tomorrow. Get him out of the house." John looked somewhat shaken.

Greg and Mycroft behaved as though nothing odd were on, bidding John a good night.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was pacing the floor of his room, hands shaking, scratching at his skin in want of a fix.

John passed two pubs on his way home, almost stopped at the third and swore at himself. He went straight home and upstairs. Taking a chance, he texted Sherlock's old number.

_Still awake? JW_

_I'm always awake. -SH_

_Remember that time I hid you from your mum? God you were drunk. What? seventeen? Running around with that lot from the school near your house over summer break. JW_

Sherlock read the text several times. His hands were shaking as he responded slowly.

_Are you drunk, John?_

_Use that brain of yours. I haven't had time to get drunk. I am lonely and I bloody well miss you. There. I said it._

John huffed once he sent the message and closed his eyes.

Sherlock's reply was a very long time coming. He lay in the dark, pale face illuminated by the blue screen light, curled in his side around the mobile. 

He met John's honesty with his own brand, saying 'I miss you, too,' with,

_I'm craving a fix._

_Want me to come get you? I've got a few films we could watch... What can I do for you, Sherlock?_

John held his phone close. "Oh, Sherlock..."

That was unexpected. Sherlock debated the invitation, delaying the message before he could send it. Who was he sodding kidding?

_I'm miserable company._

_I'm sorry things have been so strained, Sherlock. But anything I can do to help, name it._ John sighed softly and sat up looking about the flat.

Sherlock was already up, lacing his shoes. His brow knit as he read the text and he ended up chewing on his lip, deliberating. 

_If the offer still stands, I'm very much ready to leave here. SH_

_I'm on my way. J_

John took a deep breath, throwing on clothes and running for his car. When he piled into it he called Mycroft, almost chewing through his lip as he waited for him to answer.

Mycroft answered with the partially distracted tone he unknowingly employed when working. "John," he said, warm despite his half attention.

"Ah- Mycroft. I'm- I'm on my way over." John cleared his throat. "I'm coming to pick up Sherlock and we're going to watch a film or something. Christ that sounds so fucking stupid when I say it out loud."

That caught Mycroft's full attention. He stopped at his keyboard and leaned back in his seat, considering that for a moment. "The both of you are adults, John. While it comes at a bit more than a surprise, you are welcome to visit with Sherlock whenever you like." He paused then, considering his words very carefully. 

"John, I do ask that you proceed with caution. I am aware that Sherlock did not share with you the details of his, shall we say, trials? You are an intelligent man, I'm sure you've put enough together to know the impact you could potentially make for him, better or worse." 

"I know, Mycroft. I know. He shut me out earlier but he seems eager to do this. I don't want to do anything to pressure him in any way. I just want him to know I'm here. Just like I've always been even if he hasn't realized it." John let out a soft sigh. 

"I just wanted to let you know because I have a feeling he won't tell you and I didn't want you to worry he'd sneaked off to do something stupid."

“That is very much appreciated, John. I do hope your evening pans out well for you both." With that, Mycroft rang off, setting his mobile aside and allowing himself a moment to think before he resumed work. 

Sherlock was already outside smoking slowly in an effort to pass the time. 

John rolled down the window and leaned so he could see Sherlock. "Hello, Gorgeous. Need a lift?" He teased Sherlock gently, just as he had when they'd been closer, trying to put him at ease.

Sherlock stubbed out the cigarette and got to his feet, pulling open the car door. His hood was still drawn up, hands shoved in the pockets. "Have I ever told you how irritating it is that your charm works so well, despite how pedestrian it is?"

"Only about a million times, but you're welcome to tell me how charming I am again. It does wonders for my soul." John's mouth twitched up in the corner and held up a CD. "You will never guess what I found in my console on the way over..." Sherlock's scrawl was on the front of the CD flashing under the dome light.

Sherlock gave a long suffering sigh, rolling his eyes and sprawling in the sat of John's rather comfortable car. He rolled his head to look out the window, doing his best to be uninterested. "The young do foolish things," he mumbled, though he remembered with sharp clarity the effort he'd put into making the damn thing. He'd been a bottle of wine in, going through song after song trying to get the mix just right. 

"The young make perfect mixes that I have consistently kept in my car and if you'll remember, taken a copy of with me everywhere I have ever traveled. So, do shut up." John grinned and popped in the CD, thumbs tapping on the wheel as he pulled away to ACDC's Highway to Hell.

"You never did explain how you knew exactly how to make the perfect mix for me."

Sherlock looked over at John as though he were mad. "I know how to do everything perfectly for you. It's why you stuck around all those years. Likely could again if given enough time to lean you once more." He gripped his wrists in his pocket and let his eyes roam through the vehicle. 

"A lease? That's not what I'd have expected of you. Are you planning on leaving London?"

"God no, I love London. I ah- totaled the Jaguar." John winced, waiting for the tirade as he cut his eyes to Sherlock for a moment. "I didn't know if you knew. It was shortly after we ah- well, that mess of a morning. I was coming home from a shift at Royal and I was tired, fell asleep. I didn't hurt anyone, banged myself up, had a few stitches in my head. But it totaled the baby. Haven't had the heart to actually shop around for a new one."

Sherlock said nothing, staring out the window and grimacing. Guilt settled in, cold and familiar, and he very nearly asked John to let him out of the car. This had been a mistake. He'd been blowing veins in a den, and John had been in a serious accident, yet again needing Sherlock, and Sherlock once again running for the hills. 

John had hardly spent a penny for ages, saving for that Jag. Sherlock wondered if perhaps he could bully Mycroft into purchasing him a new one. "Idiot," he said with a touch of fondness in his tone, though he shuffled down deeper into the seats. 

A small huff escaped John and he reached out, curling fingers in Sherlock's sleeve for a moment. "It's alright though. I survived to irritate you. S'what I live for." He hummed along with the music, squeezing Sherlock's arm before aiming towards Baker Street. "Full coverage insurance. It's sitting in an account, waiting for me to pick a new one. Maybe you could help me."

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "I'm no use to you in that department. I care more of politics than I do automobiles." He watched the familiar lanes go by, sliding into an area of London he'd actively avoided for years. In his mind swirled a thousand questions for John, none of which he'd allow himself to ask. To inquire would be to betray his interest, and interest would give away how much he cared, and well, that had never gone well, had it?

John parked in his designated area nearby. "Come on you. I have your favorite tea and biscuits in." He hopped out of the car and around to Sherlock's side, opening it for him before Sherlock had a chance to.

Sherlock unfolded himself from the car, giving John a look at his act of opening the door for him. A moment later he was focused on Baker Street, looking up at the old, familiar building. He could not seem to make his feet move. 

"You're- you're sure you want me here?" He asked quietly, intensely apprehensive of entering the flat again after the last time had ended in such catastrophe. 

John looked over at Sherlock with one of his head tilt 'don't be an idiot' looks and unlocked the door. "Come on, Sherlock. Baker Street isn't the same without you in and out of it..."

Sherlock followed him in, standing in the foyer and looking about. It still smelled of _home_. Very little had changed. A new vase of flowers put down by Mrs. Hudson, a chair at the bend of the stairs. Otherwise, it was as if time had forgotten the place. 

Nerves twisted hard in his gut and he was speaking before he realized it. "Tell me you've something stiff on hand." 

"Of course I do. Come on, I'll pour us a glass of that scotch..." _The_ scotch. The scotch Sherlock had given John on his return from Afghanistan.

That was unexpected. Sherlock followed John up the steps, counting though he did not need to, dragging his fingers along the wall. "You mentioned you'd be having company," he said with something of a smirk at John's boldness, "She's only just dusted, and polished the railing." There would no doubt be tea made, and a plate of nibbles out despite John's biscuit preparations. 

"Is… is she well?"

John hummed at that. "Her hip's worse than ever. Greg doesn't come 'round much anymore for plausible deniability. Better than the painkillers I'd prescribe her though." He led Sherlock into the kitchen and chuckled. "She misses you. Asks after you a lot actually. Should say hello in the morning when she brings breakfast, because you know she's going to." He pulled down a couple of tumblers and then pulled out the scotch, still only the two glasses each they'd shared that night he first got home missing from it.

Sherlock arched a brow at mention of the morning. He supposed it was unlikely he'd be returning home that night, not that he particularly cared to. 

"You kept the bottle," Sherlock said quietly, admiring it from across the counter. He'd have expected John to smash the damned thing to bits by now. 

"Sherlock..." John looked up at him. "It's one of my most treasured possessions. You put so much thought and effort into this bottle. You- We made a vow that only you and I would drink from this bottle. It's been waiting. I've been waiting."

Sherlock shook his head. " _Why_?" He finally questioned, tossing back the scotch and setting it down, intentionally forgoing the usual rituals. 

"Why would you want anything at all to do with me after-" he set his jaw, sweeping his eyes over John, suddenly self-conscious of his face gone three days without a shave, his unwashed hair that Mycroft had been wanting him to cut for months, the worn clothes that hung off his frame without any favors. "You've done well for yourself, there are others far more suited to you than me."

John's brow furrowed and he looked around the flat and back to Sherlock. "Who? Sherlock, who? I mean- I've-" He shrugged. "Not one person has ever looked at me the way you do. At Eton I was the poor boy. The one there out of the grace of friends and one rich uncle. The troublemaker. But you were always so happy to see me. 'John will play with me even if you don't Myc.' And then you were there with coffee when I was slogging through med school, sneaking out of Eton yourself to come see me and check and make sure I wasn't failing chemistry..."

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down. "Then you didn't see the money. You still saw me. I wasn't someone to give you things, someone who could take you to nice places." John met Sherlock's eyes again. "You have always been my best friend, Sherlock. I don't know where this is going. I don't know what you've been through or what you need. So what I'm offering you is the same thing we've always offered each other, save for a boneheaded three years after we were both too stupid to admit we were both in a bad way... Friendship."

There was a small pause and he took a sip of his scotch. "I don't know where this road leads, Sherlock, but I've found I'm pretty damn happy in life as long as I've got you by my side in some capacity."

Sherlock took a seat as casually as he could manage, doing his best to hide the fact that his knees were going out from under him. He settled at the table, hiding in his hoodie as much as possible, empty glass between his shaking hands. He wanted a fix more than he wanted air in that moment. 

Mycroft had been telling him for years he was dependent. Sherlock had refused to listen to him. Perhaps he'd been on to something. Damn him. 

"Sorry. That was- That was a bit much to lay on you." John pushed the tray Mrs. Hudson left on the table toward him. He snagged a biscuit for himself and sat down, watching Sherlock. "Didn't mean to upset you."

Sherlock waved a hand in the air, "You've not upset me," he answered, quieter than he'd typically have done. He looked up at John then, watching him just for the sake of observing. 

"You've had three failed dates this last month. Are you not offering scotch and biscuits?" 

John huffed and rolled his eyes. "She was married and I spotted the lines on her finger from the ring. Thanks for teaching me that after I got knocked out by that bloke, by the way. He was too nervous and I'm too old to coddle someone through the first time with a man experience anymore apparently." He cleared his throat.

"And the third was a very nice bloke. Smart, so smart. Slender, glasses, curly black hair. Quentin. Seems to know Mycroft from work. Which was frightening in itself." John took a drink of his scotch to settle himself. "Entirely too fucking much like you to not bloody well be you. I sent him home, politely."

That shut Sherlock up swiftly. He was quiet for a full minute before he cracked a smile and shook his head. "You took _Q_ out on a date. I don't believe it, but you're not one to embellish. He's the Quartermaster for MI6 and you'd have been miserable with him." 

He pushed his glass closer to John, hands still shaking, his skin a bit damp now as his color continued to fade. "Would you top that off for me?" 

"Wait, _the_ Quartermaster? Christ." John topped off both their drinks and shook his head. "Have bloody double-ohs on my arse if I didn't treat him well? No, no thank you. You can hold your own against me and I'm much less afraid of Mycroft. I'll hide his cake recipes." He cleared his throat. "Well, I meant- you two are a bit alike and..." John shrugged. "You bloody well know what I mean."

He tilted his head as he looked at Sherlock. "You're looking pale, Sherlock." John moved around the table and pushed the hood back, taking Sherlock's face into his hands. "Hey, what's the last thing you ate?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Three lines of cocaine two days ago and the tea you offered me." He loathed cocaine, but it was the best he had access to with Mycroft watching him so closely. "I was clean for a few weeks, but it was so _dull_ , John." 

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." John sighed and leaned down, kissing his forehead. "You're going to eat a biscuit for the sugar. Then you are going to eat two of those small ham slices and at least four of those cheese cubes. I'm going to pour you a four ounce glass of milk and you will drink it. Anything else is a bonus. Am I understood?"

Sherlock blinked in surprise at John's tone, though he was nodding before he realized it. Typically he would scoff at such demands of his person, but this, with John, was somehow very different. He reached out and plucked up a biscuit, taking a small bite of it despite his stomach's upset. "I hate food," he said around the bite, scowling as he chewed. 

"You hate everything." John quipped. "Except me. Me, you tolerate." He winked as he ruffled Sherlock's curls with a tender caress and moved to the fridge. Soon he had a glass of milk and a cup of tea for Sherlock. "Slow. Just take it slow. In fact, give me a minute." He disappeared to the bathroom for a couple of minutes before coming back with a small pill. 

"Under your tongue. Let it dissolve. Will help you keep your food." John took a slow breath. "You can't keep going like this Sherlock. It will kill you. Don't make me bury you, yeah?"

"I hadn't expected to ever see you again," Sherlock muttered with the pill in his mouth. "No one is burying me, complete waste. Cremation and it's over, people make too much fuss over those who don't matter." He tipped his head to the side in thought, "and those that do, for that matter."

He picked up a cube of cheese, examining it between shaking fingers, popping it into his mouth as though he were enduring the worst imaginable treatment.

John sucked in a sharp breath. "Sherlock." He reached out and flicked his temple. "Always here. I'm sorry I didn't make that clear. Doing so now. Take a lot more than throwing me out of our flat on my arse and then leaving to run me off."

Sherlock chewed his food quietly, deciding not to mention that John had been gone again, off traipsing about helping people.

"Feel up to a shower? Still have some of your pyjamas hanging around. And that dressing gown of yours... Afraid it's a bit more worn." _Because you cried yourself to sleep in it for two months you idiot_.

Sherlock looked up at John as though he'd been struck. "You have-" he looked at the man as though he'd never seen him. Obstinately he shook his head, knowing he needed a shower and not caring at all.

"Not interested," he grumbled, looking around the clean kitchen. "Don't suppose you've any narcotics on hand?"

John sighed. "How long were you clean before that coke?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grumbled, "Seventy three days. What does it matter?"

"It matters because you are an addict and if you'd been using regularly, I might give in. Sherlock-" John shook his head. "No drugs. Has anyone put you on any medications?"

Sherlock scratched at his arm, irritated. "For withdrawals, yes. Otherwise, nothing." He glanced up at John and then to the door, debating leaving. "You don't need an addict in your life, John." 

"Sherlock, stop." John reached out, cupping Sherlock's face in his hands. "I need you. I always need you. I will take you any way I can get you. But I would really, really rather that not be in an urn over the fireplace. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded, looking back to John. He picked up a bit more of his food and dutifully ate as John had told him to do, focusing on at least getting that done. 

"Tell me about life," he demanded around a bite, though he'd already read most of it.

John clicked his tongue. "I've been helping with solving particularly nasty crimes. Seems my time in Afghanistan helped me to be able to observe and pick up on things that others don't tend to. With my medical background I've been able to spot some things others haven't. I'm sure you saw the fallout with Richard Brook." 

Oh, _this_ was going to be pleasant. Why the fuck had he brought him up? John wanted to slam his face into the counter. His very public breakup with the stage and screen star had been, well, Richard was a drama queen.

Sherlock set his food down and began to pick aggressively at the inside of his thumb. "Yes. And I'm sure you saw the fallout Richard had with that scandalous woman not three weeks after." He'd planted her, and landed Richard in jail for a full six months, casting a black light on his flourishing career. Sherlock wasn't much for the dish served cold. He preferred the dish dropped from a very high height, unexpected. 

There was a moment John did not speak as he studied Sherlock. A small smile pulled the corners of his mouth up. "Thank you." He murmured as he sat beside Sherlock. "He was- intense. In a lot of bad ways."

Sherlock slid his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, humming in agreement. "One would imagine." He exhaled slowly and wondered if his little Moroccan case was still tucked in the floorboards. 

"What else do you want to know?" John asked. "Or would you like to settle in with the movie? Sofa, bedroom, wherever you'll be most comfortable."

"Telly. I don't care where." He needed distraction, and he wanted out of the hard chair. He was far too bony to be comfortable on such a surface for long. 

"Up you go. Bedroom. It's a king. Plenty of room for you to sprawl that frame out in. Maybe you'll actually sleep." John pulled Sherlock to his feet gently and guided him to the room. Too late he remembered that he'd left Sherlock's dressing gown over his chair and the pictures of them were still everywhere. God Richard had hated it.

Sherlock stopped at the doorway, looking around the room in open shock. "John..." He took a few steps in, fingers grazing over his old dressing gown, now far more worn than before. It smelled laundered, but days ago, not in preparation for Sherlock's impromptu visit. His eyes touched on each picture, remembering John either tricking him into taking the photo with him, or bribing him one way or another. 

He wasn't sure if he should run, ignore, or address. 

"John," he said again, struck dumb as he studied the evidence of their relationship. 

John sucked in a breath. "I..." He paused, looking around the room. "What do you want me to say?" He murmured. "I've gone on, dated, lived my life and I didn't like any of it. I put them away for a while and I hated it. So I pulled them back out."

He crossed the room to one on his dresser and pulled it down, stroking a thumb over the glass, the picture underneath worn over Sherlock's shoulder and a bit of his face where John thumb had traveled over it in the same motion countless times in Afghanistan. "It's still one of my favorites. Since you sent it without me needling you for it."

Sherlock's legs folded gracefully under him as he sat down right where he stood, completely overwhelmed. His posture slumped, shoulders rounding forward as he looked down at his lap, lips slightly parted, breathing slow and controlled. 

Three _years_. 

His throat constricted to a painful, swollen mess of tissue as his eyes burned, blurring the view of his crossed legs. What was he supposed to do with this? He swallowed several times, body singing with want of anything, _anything_ that would numb this. How had he not known?

"Jesus, Sherlock... I'm sorry." John swore as he moved back to Sherlock and knelt in front of him. "I didn't mean to pressure you. I swear it. I swear. I just want you happy. That's all I want. I just want to help you."

Sherlock abruptly reached out and wrapped his arms around John's neck, awkward and fumbling, but wanting contact regardless. What else could he do? He held on far too tight, hiding his face against John's shoulder, saying nothing at all. 

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock. "Easy. I've got you." He knelt there, holding Sherlock close. "I've got you. We'll get through it; okay?"

John was exactly as he remembered. All warmth and cotton, now laced with the faint remnants of lab chemicals. He was still solid, but he'd a bit of softness to him that he'd not had before. Warm endearment bloomed brilliantly across his chest as he leaned into him, pressing his face to the join of John's neck and shoulder as he breathed a bit too fast, and a bit too shallow. "John," he murmured again, no indication of letting the man go. 

"I'm here." John murmured in warm tones as he shifted, urging Sherlock up to the bed. "Come on." He was gentle as he guided Sherlock down, never really letting him go. John wrapped Sherlock close to him there, one hand stroking his back. "I've got you."

Sherlock kept his face tucked down, not wanting John to see his struggle. He clutched at John's shirt, breathing in the scent of him, not particularly knowing what to do from there. 

John had missed him. 

John had _missed him_. 

He'd thought, all this time, that he was simply a forgotten bit of history, a person John used to know and was happy to keep that way. But there sat his dressing gown that John had obviously been wearing, and his own photos were everywhere, one so worn from frequent touching it was nearly unrecognizable. 

With gentle movements, John stroked Sherlock's head. He didn't speak, only made soft, reassuring noises as they laid there together. John hadn't expected this sort of reaction. A blistering telling off, telling John how ridiculous he was, yes. This? No. He kissed the top of Sherlock's head.

John had made him eat, had saved him from running off looking for a fix, and now John had him in his arms in bed, all within hours of reacquainting himself. It was simply unbelievable. 

He adhered himself to John's side, unable to speak or do much of anything else. 

With a slight shift, John turned on the television, hitting play on the DVD still in the player. He kept up his gentle stroking of Sherlock's back and head as they rested together. When the opening credits to Labyrinth came on, he hummed along with the music.

Sherlock clicked his tongue as though this were not one of his favorite films. He tucked in closer to John, angling his head so that he could see the screen, fingers curling in John's shirt as he held tight to him. 

John managed to slip out of his loafers and send them to the floor. He hooked the throw at the end of the bed with his foot and pulled it over both of them. "Give me a second..." Sherlock had his shirt, so with a bit of wiggling, John was able to toss his jacket to the chair and wrap up around Sherlock again.

Sherlock shifted right along with John, still holding on to John's shirt, glad for the throw. Layers were his armor, and he depended on them more than he cared to admit. The last three years had not been kind to him, and he'd not been kind to himself, either. He tucked back down against John and sprawled his leg over John's thighs, behaving for all the world as though this were acceptable and normal, given their relationship. He fit differently over John, but it was mostly due to his own lack of eating. Sherlock had dropped far more than John had gained. 

The way Sherlock fit against him was... God, it was right, it was good. How often had they slept together? He'd lost count. Then they'd been idiots and tried to fix themselves by having sex with each other. Too much, too fast. John kissed Sherlock's head again. "Alright Bones." He murmured. "Protein shakes if you can't eat anything. Okay? Whatever flavor you want."

Sherlock ignored John, watching the telly as the absurd puppets frolicked across the screen on their merry way to abduct an infant. He slid a single finger between the row of buttons on John's shirt, just wanting a tiny bit of contact. 

"I was sure you hated me," he said at random, just as a small green worm popped out of the styrofoam-masquerading-as-stone wall. "You should hate me, you know." 

John's fingers slid through Sherlock's hair, not minding a bit that it needed a good scrubbing. "Why? Why should I hate you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was quiet for a long stretch of time, trying to formulate an answer for such an idiotic question. "You needed me and I- you needed me. I wasn't here. Is that not grounds for hate?"

"Oh, Sherlock... You needed me and I wasn't there either. We should have been there for each other and we weren't. We let a lot of baggage get in the way and we hurt one another. When you feel like it, if you feel like it, we can talk it through. Life's too goddamned short to hold on to that sort of thing. Not when we've got all that good." John answered.

Sherlock just tightened his grip on John's shirt, wanting to be closer though he wasn't sure why. John felt safe, and comfortable. John did not judge him or look at him with disappointment, only acceptance of the situation and then he moved on. John had always been right. Whatever that meant. 

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him close. "I'll never abandon you again. I swear it, Sherlock," John promised as they lay there, curled around one another. He slipped a hand under the edge of Sherlock's hoodie, needing the feel of Sherlock's skin under his fingers for reassurance.

Very abruptly Sherlock jerked away, shoving his hoodie down along with the two shirts under it. "I- I'm- I-" he struggled for an excuse, any excuse. John would have him out, he was sure of it. He couldn't know. 

The movement startled John but he put a soothing hand on Sherlock's side. "Let me see, Sherlock. Whatever it is, let me see, yeah? Let's get this out of the way so whatever's going through that brilliant brain of yours is shut down before it convinces you that I hate you again or something."

Sherlock was abruptly out of the bed, wild-eyed and a bit lost. He held his hoodie tight to himself, backing away. 

_Not again, not again, not again._

His back hit the wall and he seemed lost for a moment as to where the door was, his entire demeanor changing like the flick of a switch. 

"Sherlock," John's voice was gentle. "I am not going to hurt you. You do not have to show me. Everything is okay. You are safe. You are always safe here." He moved out of the bed, holding his hands up. "I will never harm you."

Sherlock watched John without fear, though he kept tight hold of his clothes. "You'll have me out," his voice was hoarse, "you'll send me away to a facility, just like Mycroft, and that will be the end of it. You won't see me again." He was rambling, feeling naked despite his layers. 

"I will never send you away unless your drug habit is so bad that you're beyond all reason and need to detox. Okay?" John shook his head. "I'm not going to send you away. I swear it. I swear it, Sherlock. No matter what has happened that you think I'll send you away for."

John had never lied to him, but weeks on end in hospitals followed by rehab had made Sherlock terrified to be honest. "I'll run if you try to..." to _what_? He hung his head in shame. John was a _doctor_ , he'd be able to read Sherlock like a map. 

With shaking hands, Sherlock abruptly tugged his layers over his head, exposing his chest to John. He'd started with stubbing out his cigarettes along his belly, the pain lasting for hours. From there, the road settled before him, long and miserable. He’d seen one rough sadist after the other as he tried to understand. His skin was a map of the work the men had done, none of which Sherlock had enjoyed, frightened and without understanding. He loathed not understanding, and in his unwillingness to appear ignorant, he'd gotten himself into situations that were far above his head. 

"M-Morphine or any narcotic. P-please John," he whispered as he crossed his arms across his chest, not in any physical pain but needing to stop the emotional turmoil. 

John swore softly as he crossed the room and wrapped a hand to the back of Sherlock's head. He pulled him down and brushed his lips over Sherlock's. His hand tenderly stroked over Sherlock's chest. "You are going to come with me to the bathroom where I am going to give you a valium. You are going to get in the shower and you are going to have a soothing scrub while the medicine works." His voice was gentle but held an edge of command. "When you get out, we will come get in bed, turn the movie back on, and curl up. You can put as many layers on as you'd like."

Sherlock nodded, though he hated the idea of a shower. If it got him a valium, he'd comply. He allowed John to lead him, his arms wrapped tight around his chest, looking down to the floor. Damn those clubs, damn them. He'd gone to observe, and when observation was not enough, he'd gone to test. Doms, he found, could be incredibly vicious. 

"You should have come to me." John murmured as he stopped in the hall and got out the valium. He tipped one into Sherlock's hand. "This sort of thing. You weren't with the right people. I'm sorry they hurt you." John guided Sherlock to the shower before turning it on and adjusting the water. "I'm going to go get your clothes. Take that and get in."

Sherlock popped the pill, chewing it instead of swallowing, wanting it sooner, stronger. He let the bitter crushed powder soak in under his tongue as he nervously stripped and stepped into the shower, wrapping his arms around himself and closing his eyes. He paid no mind to the color of the water running off him. It had been more than a week since he'd forced himself to shower. 

What John must think of him now. 

The tops of his thighs were covered in self-inflicted wounds where Mycroft would not see, some of the scars several years old, others only starting to heal over. He wanted to crawl in a hole and be forgotten. 

When John returned with some of Sherlock's old things, he made sure he had a pair of thick pyjama bottoms and socks, a tee, and a long sleeved shirt along with Sherlock's dressing gown. "Sherlock, do you have any new wounds I should see? I only want to dress them. Do you need the pain? Does it help?"

Sherlock's voice was a low rumble. "I didn't know what I did wrong," he explained. John had been entirely too drunk to climax, and Sherlock took that as failure, not understanding much beyond the mechanics. "S-so I went out to learn. I- it helps when it's happening, b-but it's terrible afterwards. And I don't see how- how sex is tied into it. Not as anything good, at least." 

"Oh Christ. I was-" John shook his head putting a finger to his lips for a moment. "Just too goddamned drunk, Sherlock. You were fucking amazing." He took a few, slow breaths. "Pain and sex can be phenomenal together if done correctly." John cleared his throat. 

Sherlock was skeptical of that. He'd still only bedded John, though others had tried, aggressively at some points, requiring him to send for Mycroft to collect him. The clubs were a tangle of pain and drugs and forgetting. Only Sherlock never forgot, he just earned marks and felt as though he should scrub himself with a wire brush.

"I wouldn't know," he responded, voice soft, already wanting out of the shower.

John stood and hummed softly as he held out a warm towel. "Come dry off. I'll leave the bathroom if you wish, but I'd like to see. If it’s too much, it's alright." He paused. "Sherlock, we move at your pace.”

Perhaps John would have mercy on him and give him something more than the valium if he let him see what three years of the wrong sort if clubs had done to him.

He toweled himself off behind the curtain and then, while holding it to his chest in an effort to calm himself, he stepped out of the shower with his eyes downcast, ready for the exacerbated lecture he'd heard a thousand times.

"I should kill them all," John growled as he looked at Sherlock. His hands were gentle as he traced lines on Sherlock's skin, taking his time inspecting the damage. When he got to Sherlock's thighs, he looked up.

"If you need pain, promise you'll come to me first? Give me a chance to show you it needn't be like this. Please Sherlock." He stood and held Sherlock's clothes out to him.

Sherlock dressed swiftly, saying nothing as he wrapped his arms around himself, a bit dazed and struggling to come up with anything to say in his defense.

He gave up as cold swiftly set in, making him shiver.

John did not hesitate, wrapping a hand to the back of Sherlock's neck and applying gentle pressure. "Easy. Let's get in bed and get you warm." 

He did not let Sherlock go, keeping the contact as he guided him back. With gentle hands, John tucked Sherlock into bed before retreating to his dresser. He dressed in a pair of warm pyjama bottoms and no shirt. He crawled in bed with Sherlock, dragging the thick covers over them. He restarted the movie and opened his arms.

Sherlock very swiftly tucked himself into John's arms, no longer paying any mind to the television. He was quiet as he listened to John's heart beating, the hollow sound of air moving in and out of his lungs. Slowly, slowly, he began to doze off.

For a while, John stayed awake, tenderly stroking Sherlock's hair. Soon he drifted into a light doze.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long.  
> -Symphony

The next morning was something of a blur for Sherlock. He woke in a state of confusion, glancing over to see John with him. He smelled of soap and clean clothes. It took a moment to remember that he'd showered and John had seen his body.

That was enough to make him hiss and press a hand to his face, letting go of John and sitting up. He rested his elbows on his knees and tried to bury his face in his hands.

John was tender and gentle with Sherlock as he sat up and took Sherlock's face into his hands. "Hey there. Look at me. Sherlock. Tell me what you need."

Sherlock looked at John without speaking for several minutes.

“What you must think of me." Sherlock looked away from John, almost wishing he'd never come in the first place.

"I think you are a gorgeous man who tried to find his way in the world and got taken advantage of." John kissed his forehead. "I will always be here to help you find your way. I'm sorry I wasn't before."

"They told me you were dead. Three days. It took three days to get a proper report. They told me you were _dead_." He looked to John, shame painted across his features. "I'm sorry, I had no reason to- to keep clean. I couldn't handle it, John."

John sucked in a sharp breath. "Sherlock. Oh god. I didn't know. That's why you were so angry when I wouldn't come home. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He kissed Sherlock's head again, then the corner of his mouth. "Sherlock."

Sherlock held still as John kissed the corner of his mouth. "You wouldn't come home. I figured- Mycroft helped me get your dress uniform ready so they could bury you. He sent it with the- they came to get it. It smelled like you, John. Had a blond hair under the collar the cleaners missed. And then you wouldn't come home and then you did come home..." He raked his hands through his hair. "And now you've got my dressing gown on the back of your chair."

With a small noise of sorrow, John tucked his face next to Sherlock's. "I didn't know. Sherlock. I would have come home." He stoked Sherlock's hair. "Please, I'm sorry."

Sherlock shook his head. "It was a long time ago. I'm not angry. It's done, what more is there to say? I just wanted you to understand that I- I didn't just leave you."

"Stay, Sherlock, stay. I- please, just stay with me. I can't lose you again. We'll go as slow as you need."

Sherlock shook his head. "I thought you'd- Mycroft won't like it. How could I possibly? I don't have anything to offer you, John. You hardly know me any longer, and I hardly know you." 

John sighed, resting his head against Sherlock's. "You're right. Of course you are." John closed his eyes. "I’m sorry. I didn't mean to pressure you. Jesus, I just keep doing this."

Well, that was that, wasn't it? Sherlock could not offer John anything in return, and there was no point to this. Sherlock got up and brushed his fingers along the side of John's neck sadly, going to fetch his hoodie.

"I was going to go to the streets last night." He paused, looking down at the material in his hands, realizing just how badly his hoodie wanted a wash. "I'm- this was a vast improvement on that plan." 

This was his only way of saying 'thank you' without going to bits. Sherlock was so bitterly disappointed with himself. If only he'd kept a job, even if he'd not kept clean, if he'd been some sort of presentable partner. But no, he'd just given up, and now that he had the possibility of a chance, he'd only be saddling John with wreckage.

"Please give Mrs. Hudson my regards."

"Sherlock. Stay. Take the room. Don't go to the bloody streets. I meant I keep kissing you. Don't walk out on me, please. I want you here. No matter what. We'll figure this out. Even if it's just friendship again. Sherlock, stay. Sod Mycroft. Stay, get to know me again." John went to his feet, reaching for Sherlock.

"Please."

Sherlock had intended to return to Mycroft's home, not out to find a fix, but that hardly mattered. John wanted him to stay.

He looked at his old dressing gown, then the pictures of himself in a well-tailored suit. "That man isn't me, John." Sherlock looked back to John.

"I'm just an addict, John. I have no intention to stay clean. I'm just-" He spread his arms, hoodie trapped in one hand. "I'm this. Men, sometimes women, throw cash my way once they've vented their anger. That's what I do. I'm going to Mycroft's. He is obligated, you are not."

John tilted his head. His eyes narrowed for a moment and he nodded. John's posture shifted, as he drew himself up. "Sherlock. Take off your clothes and stretch out on the bed. Face down. Give me this much. Give me a chance. Face down, on the bed." The tone of his voice held a quiet command. 

"If there is something you don't like, but you want to continue,say yellow. If you want everything to stop, say red. We stop, you dress or do whatever it is you need to."

Sherlock blinked, struck dumb as his stomach sank. Did John- was John like the men at the clubs and he'd somehow not seen it? He slowly set his hoodie down, hands already shaking. He never did this sober, and always as a punishment to himself once he'd learned there was no tie to sex in it, at least for him.

But it was fitting, perhaps, that John have his chance at vengeance. Sherlock was not looking forward to exposing his body again, but he owed this debt.

"Could- Could I h-have a drink first." His entire demeanor shifted, actively fighting back tears as he pulled his shirt off. "Please S-Sir?" He knew the rules, keeping his eyes to the floor, not yet stripping out of his trousers.

John crossed to Sherlock and placed his fingers under Sherlock's chin. "Look at me. Still me, Sherlock. Still just John. I'm not going to harm you. I'm going to show you what it can be like. Not what they did to you. You don't have to call me sir, you can look at me. If it's better for you to say sir and look down, that's fine too." 

He paused, taking a deep breath. "You are safe and cared for here. No drink. I need you completely here for this. Remember, say red and I stop without being angry or upset with you."

Sherlock bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, keeping his eyes down. No drink. Nothing to ease this. He focused on his breathing as he slid out of his clothes. The bed was still warm from where they'd slept.  
Sherlock pressed his face to the bedding, just below the pillows, fingers curling into the sheets as his hands trembled, entire body locked up tight in anticipation.

With his face hidden, he could not help the few tears that dampened his lashes.

It would be okay. It would. He'd take this and then find his way to a den. In a few hours he would be free of pain, floating in his own mind.

John moved to his wardrobe and gathered a crop and flogger. He'd use them only if Sherlock looked like he could take them. He hummed softly as he got it the massage oil and warned some between his hands. 

"We'll start with this." John murmured as he climbed onto bed, kneeling beside Sherlock and starting in on his back, working his muscles tenderly. "It's not all about pain. It shouldn't be."

Sherlock jumped as John touched him, holding his breath and pressing his forehead to the bed, fully expecting pain. He could handle pain, that was not the issue. The problem was both his sobriety, and the deeply personal nature of this. There would be no money for a score, no drugs in his pocket when he left bleeding. This was just punishment, not a transaction.

Granted, he'd never been given a massage beforehand. Perhaps John wanted him comfortable before he beat him. He began to breathe again, slow but shallow, holding perfectly still for John.

"This is supposed to be about sensation. Give and take... This is about both of us getting something out of this." John continued for a few more minutes until, despite it all, he could feel Sherlock start to relax.

"I'm going to strike you now, Sherlock. If it gets to be too much say red." He landed a light open handed strike to Sherlock's arse, kneading the flesh before doing it again.

Sherlock jerked, expecting more pain than that. He was quiet for John, his heart rate slowing just a bit. John did not sound angry, at least. He kept focus on his breathing, all his nerves awake and tingling.

John smiled as he watched Sherlock. "I've got you. I'll never harm you Sherlock." He struck Sherlock again. His next few strikes were stinging, but not rough. He rubbed between the strikes, praising Sherlock. "So beautiful. So very good. You deserve to be cherished, Sherlock.

Sherlock shut the words out, rejecting them entirely. What John was doing to him though, that was a different story altogether. His grip eased on the sheets as he gently rubbed his face against the blankets. Nothing had ever felt close to this

Sherlock was gorgeous and John kept going, growing quiet except for a soft 'good man' now and again. He hummed and reached for the flogger. "I'm trying a flogger, Sherlock. Remember, yellow if you want me to switch to something else or red to stop."

Sherlock's anxiety spiked immediately. He passed his face to the mattress and held his breath, heart thundering in his ears. He needed a drink, a line, or a goddamn pill. Anything to help him endure this. Floggers bit into the skin, tore and ripped and bloody well hurt like hell. He was in silent tears as he heard John move, starting his knees up slightly, taking short, stuttered breaths as he did his absolute best to hold still and behave.

John watched him frowning. "Breathe for me." He brought the flogger down lightly in a series of gentle strikes aimed for pleasure. John wanted Sherlock to feel everything it could offer. "In not going to harm you. Remember your safewords."

There was a delicate balance here. Sherlock was terrified, but in desperate need of _something_. John kept a close eye on him to make sure he wasn't pressing him too hard. "I’m not going to harm you." He reassured again.

Sherlock drew in a sharp, quick breath and then another, desperate to get this over with. He jumped each time the leather came down, willing John to just get on with it so that he could go find some hole to crawl into. 'Not going to harm,' meant very little in Sherlock's experience. That usually meant, 'you won't need a doctor,' which was little comfort.

John set into a series of heavy strikes, meant to thud and cause some pain but not anything to bring tears. "You are beautiful like this," John murmured. He struck Sherlock with an open hand on his arse few times between strikes and then skimmed his hand along the heating flesh.

"Tell me how you are, Sherlock. Talk to me. I need to know if you want more or want me to stop." Still his hand caressed Sherlock.

Sherlock did not want to talk. What did John want to hear out of him? Normally he was told what to say. He groaned and bit down on the insides of his cheeks, mind foggy with fear. So far the pain had been minimal, but what if he earned himself something worse for the wrong words?

"I d-don't know," he gasped, struggling to keep still. "I don't know."

John set the flogger aside. He stretched out beside Sherlock, rubbing his back. "Breathe for me. You are safe. We're done. Come here." He held open his arms. "If you want more in a bit, we'll do more, but you are nearly trembling. I will not cause you the same kinds off marks this people did.

That was it? They were done? Sherlock dared to look at John, watching his face carefully. "Y-You're- that's all you wanted? "

John tenderly wiped a tear from Sherlock's face. "I don't want to beat you until you bleed, Sherlock. I want you to enjoy it. I enjoy inflicting pain, but only as much as a person can handle and wants." His thumb stroked along Sherlock's cheekbone. "And if you never want to do this again with me, I won't be angry. Disappointed but never angry."

Sherlock had only sought out information on sex, and when he'd wandered into the wrong sort of club, he'd been shown only punishment. He never let anyone sleep with him, and he'd never been allowed any form of pleasure from such treatment. It was as though John were speaking a language he did not understand.  
And yet again, he was likely to disappoint John. "I'll do what you want. You- you can call for me at any time and I'll come."

John's brow furrowed. "Did you enjoy this at all, Sherlock? Please, tell me the truth. It's not just for me."

Sherlock was desperately confused. "I'm not supposed to enjoy it. This is- I don't understand."

"Oh, Sherlock. I'm not trying to punish you." John shook his head. "This is all very much a part of my sex life. This is a very intimate thing for me. I- Sherlock, promise me, please, if you need punishment that you'll come to me. I can hurt you when you need it. But I'll do it safely. If not me, well, I have friends who will enjoy beating you but not harm you. Not like those others did."

Sherlock could not understand. He traced a scar song his side, wondering how this could do anything for John. "You- this… How is this sexual?"

John hummed. "It’s all tied up together for me. It isn’t always about sex. I enjoy hurting people in a controlled environment." He watched Sherlock. "It's about sensuality too, for me. About everything together.Endorphins and caring and being cared for."

Sherlock was intrigued at this point. The fear was beginning to melt away as a puzzle presented itself. "H-How? How could those two things meet?"

"It's all about nerves and the cross wire. It's- hm well I enjoy taking care of people too. Sherlock, I will do any experiments you wish to. Or none at all. This is about you and what you want." John said as he brushed an overlong curl from Sherlock's face.

Sherlock was quiet for a long time. "I still don't understand. It's just pain. It just hurts. How is this… I don't understand how what they do can be-" He swallowed and ducked his head down, feeling foolish. "Perhaps the problem is that I haven’t- since you. It’s only ever been about punishing myself."

John chewed on the inside of his cheek before pulling Sherlock to him. "I'd very much like to kiss you, Sherlock. May I?"

Sherlock hesitated for just a moment before nodding. He looked to John, taking deep, slow breaths. "Alright."

John pulled Sherlock to him hand tangling gently in his curls before he kissed him slowly. He stroked Sherlock's bottom lip with his tongue as he wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist.

Oh… This Sherlock remembered. He leaned into John, relaxing as he held onto him, lips parting. He groaned low in his throat, having forgotten how remarkable this could be. He held on to John's arms, giving him the lead.

John made a low sound of approval as he deepened the kiss. He tightened his grip in Sherlock's hair as he grazed his teeth over Sherlock's lower lip.

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath and parted his lips more for John, leaning into him. He hummed in surprise, eyes opening for a brief moment of surprise before closing again.

Pressing close, his hand splayed against Sherlock’s bare back, John kissed him until he was breathless. He pulled back enough to gaze at Sherlock. "Christ, Sherlock."

Sherlock understood this, had understood the last time he and John had been intimate. He made a sound of protesting distress as he pulled away, grabbing John's shirt and pulling him back

John groaned as he yanked off his shirt and sent it flying across the room before pulling Sherlock back to him. He kissed him again, both hands going running over Sherlock’s back. "I missed you. I missed you so much. Every fucking day." John nipped at Sherlock's lower lip.

Sherlock gasped as John's skin came into direct contact with his own, hands frantic on John's back, gripping his sides, plunging into his hair. He groaned into John's mouth, hanging onto him desperately.

"Fuck." John kissed Sherlock hard, nipping and running his hands down Sherlock's back again. "Mine." John near growled. "Mine. They won't touch you again. I swear it."

Sherlock gave a nearly pitiful whimper at that, tucking in against John as he called Sherlock his, leaning in as much as he could. John felt safe and warm and perfect, and he was all Sherlock wanted. This was what he'd tried for all those years ago, when he'd managed to mess up the whole affair.

With gentle pressure, John moved him back toward the bed and urged him onto it. "Sherlock." John whispered as he pulled him into his arms. "I'll never let you go. I promise. You'll never be hurt again." He kissed him hard again, pulling Sherlock against him, wrapping him close.

Sherlock moved with John, pulling him down and trying to wrap up with him, clumsy and stumbling in his efforts but wanting John close to him.

John kissed along Sherlock's jaw, nipping at his neck, before dipping his head to Sherlock's collarbone and sucking up a mark. His teeth grazed and nipped Sherlock as his fingers explored Sherlock's sides. "Never going to give you up again," John murmured against Sherlock's skin. 

"I don't care how long it takes us to know one another again." He moved back to Sherlock's mouth, kissing him roughly, one hand burying in his curls.

Sherlock groaned as John handled him, sucking in a sharp breath and then holding his breath. The feel of John's fingers in his hair and the roughness of the kiss had shorted his mind, making him pay attention to nothing but John's actions.

John dragged his teeth over Sherlock's lower lip before pulling back just enough to gaze down at him, breathing quickened. "You're beautiful." His thumb caressed Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock opened his eyes, staring at John. How has he not known John felt this way? "I- last time I ruined- I don't understand why you'd want-" He shut himself up, if John wanted him, what the hell was he doing trying to talk him out of it?

"You didn't ruin anything, Sherlock. We were both in bad places. Both of us did stupid things." John pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. "This goes however fast or slow you need. I'll spend forever getting to know you again if I have to."

Sherlock was already leaning back into John's space, afraid that he'd derailed them again. He tugged at John in question, wanting him back close. This was a high, and he wanted more.

John pressed close, doing nothing to hide how aroused he was. He nipped at Sherlock's jaw before dipping back to bite along his neck and down his chest. "You will never be harmed again. I'll kill the bastard who dares lay a hand on you." His hands gripped Sherlock's hips, scooting him to the middle of the bed as he knelt between Sherlock's legs. He reached up and raked his nails down Sherlock's chest hard enough to leave light welts in their wake.

At first Sherlock was confused by all of this, the mix of elation at John's vow of protection -permission to stop seeking out strangers to punish him- and then the brilliant feel of John kissing him like that. It cracked off little sparks of adrenaline, followed by the shock of pain down his chest that had him groaning and arcing up against John's hand. It hurt. It was pain, and at first he thought John was using some twisted form of punishment, but it left him panting and wanting more. At the brutal hands of others he's just endured until it was over.

John's name fell shaky and unsure from his lips, even as he arched up again for further attention.

"Easy, breathe for me." John pinched a nipple, tugging against Sherlock. Nothing John did was harsh, but gods, Sherlock was responsive. "Beautiful. So beautiful." John reached down, rubbing his hand over Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock's entire world suddenly snapped down to nothing but John and John's hands. He hissed in surprise, arching up against John as he completely stopped breathing. This was better than his drugs, better than the narcotics and opioids. This was John and sparks of pain and sudden intense pleasure even with such a mild touch.

John couldn't help the smirk on his face as Sherlock arched and nearly shut down on him. "That's it, Sherlock. Let it flow over you." He tugged harder on Sherlock's nipple, a bit more pressure as his hand wrapped around Sherlock and he stroked him in slow, measured strokes.

"You are mine, Sherlock. Mine to take care of. Mine to hurt." He tugged on Sherlock's other nipple with a pinch. "When you need it. No one else gets to have or hurt you. It's my job. Am I understood?" John kept his voice soft, gentle, and full of the love he still harbored for SHerlock.

Sherlock nearly choked as John took him in hand, the stinging pain at his nipple keeping him focused. He nodded, far less afraid now that a measure of pleasure had been added to what he associated with simple suffering.

"Just you," he stammered out, his voice wavering as he tipped his head back, "yours."

"Good man," John murmured as he sped his strokes. With firm strokes, John continued, watching Sherlock. He splayed his free hand on Sherlock's chest. "I want to see you break for me, Sherlock."

Oh god, Sherlock had never seen this side. He was nearly biting through his lips, bucking up against John's hand though he was oblivious to the action. He was hardly breathing, feeling as though a freight train were bearing down on him, coiling around his spine until with a sudden cry he curled up, abdomen locking up hard as he broke apart, silently screaming, spilling over John's hand in long, seemingly endless pulses.

John worked Sherlock through the orgasm, murmuring soft words of praise as he stroked Sherlock's chest. "That's it, that's it. I've got you. Breathe for me, Sherlock. Just breathe. God, you're beautiful." He kept up a steady stream of the soft praises as he eased Sherlock through the intense orgasm. When Sherlock relaxed back against the bed again, John snagged his shirt to clean up with.

Sherlock lay in dazed shock, staring up at the ceiling. Little shocks of electricity popped off at random intervals, making him press his hand over his eyes.He struggled as he felt far too much and far too little all at the same time. His breathing was a chaotic mess, and he had absolutely no idea what to do with himself.

"Try to slow your breathing." John cleaned Sherlock. "Come here." He hooked the blankets with his foot and draped them over the both of them. John kissed Sherlock's arm. "I've got you."

Sherlock moved into John's arms without speaking, entirely unable to regulate his breathing. He was almost gaping, chest rising and falling in near panic, wheezing slightly as his hands shook. That had been so much mite than he'd ever experienced.

"J-John," he breathed, swallowing hard, eyes wide and staring across the room as he waited for his mind to come back online.

"Easy," John murmured as he pressed Sherlock's hand to his chest. He took a slow, deep breath. "Follow my breathing. Follow me, Sherlock. Concentrate on me. I have you." His breathing was slow and even, encouraging Sherlock to do the same. "You are safe and cared for. I've got you."

It took several minutes, but eventually Sherlock was following John's breathing. He closed his eyes, unaccustomed to the feeling of all of this. He need to sort out his higher thinking, to figure out how he felt about all of this. But how could he when John was holding him, his heart beating steadily, his voice gentle and his arms warm and safe? Sherlock pressed his face to John's chest and tried to calm down, working on sorting what was troubling him.

John stroked Sherlock's hair, holding him close, allowing him the silence. He closed his eyes as he thought about what had just happened. Sherlock felt perfect in his arms and all John wanted to do was reassure him that everything was going to be okay.

Sherlock was silent for several minutes, long enough to slow his breathing and think.

"I-" his voice cracked and he had to clear his throat, shaking his head and attempting to explain again, "I want- There is more and I want to know more." He looked up at John then, something sharp and desperate in his heart taking his breath away.

"So much more." John promised as he cupped Sherlock's cheek. "I will tell and show you anything you want, Sherlock. Anything at all. I have toys, I have knowledge. Any of it you want is yours." He kissed Sherlock, a gentle brush of lips before looking at him again. "Pain, pleasure, serving, or not. Anything you want to learn about."

Sherlock moved back for another kiss, hanging on to John's arms. "Can I stay? I- not Mycroft's. I want to stay. If you'll still have me, I'm not leaving."

"Sherlock, this has never stopped being your home too. You're always welcome back to Baker Street. You kept it for me while I was gone. I've kept it for you while you were gone. You're home."

Sherlock nodded and settled his head back down on John's chest. He was quiet again for quite a while, eventually frowning at his shaking hands. John's work had done wonders for him while it was happening, but now in the aftermath, Sherlock was again struggling for want of _something_. Though there was a new, unfamiliar desire to not hurt or upset John.

John kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Sherlock, may I try something with you?" He rubbed his back with tender strokes. "You're shaking, I'm working on a hunch. If you don't like it, we will immediately discontinue what I'm going to do. Alright?"

Sherlock swiftly nodded and closed his eyes, hoping John could once again fix it. "Yes. I don't know why my body is being so infuriatingly difficult." He was unsettled and angry with himself, the irritation masking the worry that he wasn't being good enough for John. 

"Shh, it's alright. It's expected. It's new. You're likely riding endorphin mixes you've not had before." John slipped out of bed and moved to his trunk. He fished in it for a moment before pulling out a carved wooden box. John sat on the edge of the bed and opened the box, allowing Sherlock to see the black leather cuffs.

"Hand me your wrists. These have never been on anyone else. I've kept them all this time, hoping I'd find someone worthy of putting them on.

Sherlock's heart plunged into his stomach and immediately his eyes began to water. He'd made some error, done something wrong. Cuffs meant scars, they only cuffed when they knew pain would outweigh will. He looked from the cuffs to John and back, dropping his eyes and hanging his head.

"I-" he nearly said he was sorry, but he did not understand what he needed to be sorry for. He extended his wrists, hands shaking, breathing tight and struggling not to become emotional outwardly.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, easy. Easy..." John wavered but pressed on. He took the cuffs out and put them on Sherlock's wrists, one after the other. The leather was soft, lined with wool. He'd worked the leather himself until it was buttery and smooth, then had a friend make them. "These are my gift to you, Sherlock. I will always protect you and do what I can to keep you safe, but when you wear these, you know I am with you, even if I'm at work, or out away from you."

Sherlock was doing his best to listen to John. He did not sound angry or disappointed, and the cuffs were much different than what he'd experienced before, but still he had no understanding of this. He put his hands on his knees, breathing audibly, head bowed as he waited for John to go fetch rope and whatever it was he was going to lash him with.

John reached out and wrapped Sherlock up in his arms. He pulled him close and nuzzled his temple. "Hey, I've got you. You're safe." John whispered as he kissed Sherlock's head. "You're safe and you're mine and no one is ever going to hurt you again. Do you want me to take them off? They were meant to make you feel better, not worse."

Sherlock melted against John, rendered a complete mess when undergoing anything akin to submission. He'd always done it to atone for what he'd done to John, for the mistakes he'd made, and now he was terribly confused and desperately willing to do anything to be allowed to stay. 

"I- aren't you- these a-are to keep me still so that-" He cleared his throat, disgusted with how pathetic he sounded. If John wanted to beat him, that was his right. Sherlock had decided so years ago when he'd inadvertently fallen into this. 

"Sherlock, no. No. They were meant to be a comfort. A layer of protection from the outside world. I- oh Christ. I'm sorry, they only ever cuffed you to beat you, didn't they?" He rubbed Sherlock's back, holding him close and firm. "I can take them off right now. I don't want them to frighten you."

Sherlock shook his head rapidly, keeping tucked close in John's arms, letting John's hands on his back settle his screaming nerves. He'd been able to handle a great deal of pain given out by the men he'd gone to his knees for, but he'd never been sober. Not ever. Never anywhere close. The idea of enduring such things while fully in his own mind utterly terrified him. 

But this was _John_ and John was offering him _shelter_. John had given him the most pleasure he'd ever had, never knowing it could feel like that. John had not cut into his flesh or left him so bruised he could not move without limitations. "I- no don't take them. I- I'm just learning. I want to do what you want me to do." 

John smiled at that. "I want you to try to relax with me. This isn’t just about what I want you to do. It’s about taking care of you too. But, I want you tell me if you're itching for a fix. You are an addict, Sherlock. You always have been in one form or another. I cannot allow you to harm yourself with drugs and things of that nature. But I can help you replace it. I can help you focus it in another way." He kissed Sherlock's head again.

"I'll show you things that can help, give you endorphin rushes." He cleared his throat. "May not be the healthiest thing for most people. To replace addictions, I mean. But you're not wired like most people."

Sherlock's thundering heart once again began to slow as he tucked his face to John's neck. He was going to apologize for being an addict, but none of his apologies had ever made life better for Mycroft or Greg. Instead he simply tried to breathe and focus on John. 

"I want to be high," he confessed in his normal, unapologetic timbre. John knew it, there was no sense insulting him with a denial. 

"I can help. I can teach you to soar all on your own, Sherlock." John kissed the top of his head. "I have you, you're safe. Do you want to try more pain in a different way?"

Pain would release endorphins, that was true. Who better to trust with this than John? He was a doctor, he'd care for Sherlock without damaging him, he'd made that promise. He said this was a major part of his life. Sherlock nodded, though not without a lingering sense of fear. He wished he'd gone into this high, just as a buffer, but he'd trust John enough to help him without making him suffer. 

"Good man," John whispered. "Lay on your stomach for me." He nuzzled Sherlock's temple before slipping from the bed and taking up his flogger. "I want to show you how wonderful these can feel. I will never harm you, Sherlock. Never."

Sherlock's stomach twisted as he lay down for John, once again grabbing the bedding in his fists, afraid but willing to do as John asked. He knew John would not break him physically.There was no logic to his fear and yet still it remained. He pressed his forehead to the bedding and waited. John had just done this and he'd been alright. There was no need to be frightened. 

His body refused to listen, tense and braced. 

John trailed the falls down Sherlock's back before striking him with a moderate blow. Enough to sting and then fade into warmth. "I have you. You are protected. You are treasured. You are good." He followed up with another couple of blows the same strength.

Sherlock forced himself to relax. He could not completely manage it, but the tingling warmth left in the wake of each strike was surprising, and he chose to focus on that instead of fear of the next blow. He took in a deep breath, and then another, making himself breathe through it. He'd be okay. John was not punishing him, he was not angry. 

"Gorgeous. You are absolutely gorgeous." John brought down a harder strike, enough to make it burn as it faded back down. He reached down and squeezed Sherlock's arse. "Beautiful."

Sherlock found himself swelling with pride at John's praise, hearing John's enjoyment of this as his back burned. He arched up into John's hand, rubbing his face against the blankets and being as still for him as he could. 

"Oh god, Sherlock. Perfection." John reached up and ran his nails down Sherlock's back. "Christ." He swallowed hard as he watched Sherlock reacting, shifting to adjust himself.

Sherlock's back dipped and then arched with John's fingers, much like a cat responding to nails on its back, his head coming up in surprise at how much it was nearly like itching a sunburn with none of the unpleasantness of it. He groaned as he dropped his head back down, his breathing fast for reasons that had much less to do with fear now. 

"That's it," John murmured. "That's it." He groaned as he watched Sherlock, swearing softly under his breath. "Sherlock." There was a shaky quality to John's breath. 

"Christ. I thought you'd enjoy it." He sucked in a breath. John wanted nothing more than to redden Sherlock and then flip him over on his sore back and arse, and fuck him until they were both screaming.

The tremor in John's voice was both arousing and alarming. If he lost himself, would he become like the rest of them? Sherlock would take it, but it frightened him. He allowed John whatever freedom he wanted, trying to arch back into John's hands, wanting anything but for John to stop. 

John took in a deep breath and scratched one more time before stroking Sherlock's back. "I'm going to make you fly.”

The strikes came, one after another. They was meant to sting and melt into warmth. He worked Sherlock's back and arse, keeping a careful eye on Sherlock's movements and a sharp ear for any distress.

Sherlock's mind had shut off once again. Later he'd realize how wonderful that was, but just then all he could do was hang on and give over to John. His entire back was alight, and his arse, previously untouched, was feeling each blow with exceptional sharpness. He fisted the bedding, holding on and shifting his face constantly as his body sang, pain and warmth both taking him out of his head and setting him free. 

When Sherlock's back was the shade he wanted it, John pressed against Sherlock’s side. "Roll over for me, Sherlock." He knew how the soft sheets would feel. Soothing and a bit more pain all rolled together. He wanted to see Sherlock's face, needed to watch him.

Sherlock hesitated. The few times he'd dared to comply with others, things went very badly, very fast. He'd made a no face-to-face interaction rule very swiftly, and aggressively defended himself when that was not respected. He allowed himself enough time to take a few steadying breaths before rolling to his back, hissing as his skin flared up under the pressure while soothing at the drop in temperature. His eyes went right to John, clearly afraid but also aroused and wanting. 

John leaned in and pressed kisses up Sherlock's thigh, along his side, pausing to scrape his teeth over a nipple. He licked over it before continuing up to capture Sherlock's lips in a rough kiss. John rolled his hips against Sherlock's, unable to help the groan that escaped him. God how he wanted Sherlock, but he wasn't going to pressure him.

Oh… _oh_ , well this was decidedly different. John was very much enjoying himself, undeniably so. Sherlock had never felt anything like it as John rolled down against his hips, hard and startlingly _hot_ even through his trousers. Last time, Sherlock had failed to interest him at all, barely managing to get any reaction like this. 

He shoved the memory away as shame roared up hard in his chest. It wasn't like that, not this time. 

There was a bloody _whimper_ and it took Sherlock's distracted mind far too long to realize _he'd_ been the source of it. "Please," fell off his tongue before he'd thought of speaking, not even knowing what he was asking for. 

"Oh Christ, yes. I am going to take you apart, Sherlock. God, tell me right now if you don't want this. Tell me if you don't want me to fuck you right now." John couldn't help the hoarseness to his voice as he nipped at Sherlock's neck. Fuck, he didn't want Sherlock to say no, but he would go climb in a freezing bath if it meant protecting Sherlock.

"I swear it, Sherlock. You are safe, protected. I don't do anything you don't agree to, okay?"

Sherlock was not about to tell John 'no,' regardless of his nerves. He'd been nervous this entire encounter, and yet he'd regretted nothing. 

"Okay," he managed to respond, rolling his hips up against John for the shock of friction and to feel John once more through his trousers, curious and excited and more than a bit alarmed. It would be alright, they'd tried this before. He'd always wanted this with John even if he hadn't with other people. 

"Fuck." John growled as he shifted to get his trousers off. He took a few deep breaths before grabbing the lube and a condom. His tongue darted out, licking over his lower lip as he slicked his fingers. John applied more lube to Sherlock before gazing down at him. "Breathe for me." He slowly pressed a finger into Sherlock.

Everything came to a screeching halt as he was suddenly being invaded. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he stared at John, taking in a short, gasping breath, tensing around John's finger as he bit his lip. 

This was John, this was only John and John was not going to hurt him. This was John. He was okay because _this was John_. His erection flagged, nerves getting the better of him, tense and stressed. He tried to focus on his back, on the feel of John over him, on the clear desire in John's eyes, but he was only narrowly breathing. 

John wrapped his other hand around Sherlock's cock and gave a few slow strokes. "I've got you, Sherlock. You are safe, protected. Say the word and it stops. We can always try again or never again. Whatever you want. I won't be angry, I promise. Focus on me. Breathe."

John's hand on him was more than enough to bring Sherlock's desire back to life. He exhaled and began to relax, watching John intently, taking in the small changes to his face as John controlled the situation. There was something about this side of John that he'd never seen before, something he imagined John's men saw in the field, under his command. 

The thought alone made Sherlock groan, arching up into John's hand before pressing back down against him. 

Sherlock's actions drew a groan from John as he started working Sherlock open. After a minute he added a second finger, curling them both to brush Sherlock's prostate as he stroked him. "Good man, so very good for me." 

He bit his lip to keep himself from going too fast. This had to be perfect for Sherlock. Sherlock had to love it.

The combination of praise and the explosive shock of John's clever fingers inside of him made Sherlock rock down hard, gasping at John as he stifled a moan with an ill-timed breath, wanting both of John's hands and too indecisive to know which to pursue. He could not help but close his eyes, hands shaking where he had them buried in the blankets. 

John swore and continued working Sherlock open. After a minute, he added a third finger. "God, yes." He went slow, pressing slow and easy. "God you're gorgeous."

Sherlock tried to press down against him, keening as he became impatient, wanting _more_ and starting to make an effort at controlling the situation. He'd never been properly trained, would never have allowed that. He attended for penance, and that was the extent of it. As a submissive, he had virtually no manners at all, save for when he was terrified. 

"Mm, easy, Sherlock. We'll get there. I've got you." He spread his fingers, checking Sherlock over, making sure he was open enough before slowly withdrawing his fingers. John chewed on his lip before easing forward. He rolled the condom on himself before slicking himself well and gazing down at Sherlock.

Just as Sherlock always was when he wanted something, he became impatient and mouthy. "Christ, John, get on with it!" He sounded quite irritated, as though he were not in cuffs, laid out before John in the nude, aching hard and irritated that he wasn't being fucked fast enough. "Are we going to make a memory book of it, come on!" 

John couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up from him. "Oi, mouthy. I'm sure I can find better uses for that mouth. But for now." He leaned in, pressing into Sherlock. 

"Fuck," he groaned. "For now I want to hear you." Jesus, Sherlock felt brilliant around him. John swore again as he continued sliding into Sherlock.

Sherlock was abruptly silenced, pulling at the bedding and arching his hips for John as he forgot to breathe. It was too much, far, far too much, and desperately not enough in the same measure. 

Panting, John stilled when he was fully seated in Sherlock. "Mine. My Sherlock." John raked his nails over Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock stared wide-eyed at John, motionless, a brilliant burn through the core of him mixing with an intense desire to hear John sound so very base for as long as he could manage. The nails down his chest made him blink in surprise and he cleared his throat, startled with how very different this felt. 

He'd never felt so connected, so… God help him he'd later roll his eyes for the descriptive, but there was no other way to describe it than _whole_. He'd again forgotten to breathe, arching his chest slightly to follow John's fingers, finally understanding why it was that people as a whole got themselves into so much trouble and heartache over this. He could not imagine John paired with anyone else like this, and would likely fly into a blind rage were he to discover it. 

It was bliss, and it was utterly terrifying. 

John groaned as he watched Sherlock. He did not look away as he rolled his hips a touch. Oh but it was perfect, the feel of Sherlock around him everything he wanted and needed. He hitched one of Sherlock's legs up higher and moved, drawing almost all the easy out before groaning as he skid back in.

"Mine.”.

Sherlock winced slightly as John began to move. John was fully out of his realm of normal behavior. This was all very interesting to Sherlock, watching as John began to move inside of him.

"Yours." He gripped the blankets so tight his hands shook. "Whatever you want, yours."

How had he not known? John leaned in and kissed Sherlock, pouring every bit of the love and the care he had for Sherlock into it. He nipped his lower lip and rolled his hips. "Relax," he urged against Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock let out a slow, shuddering breath. He put his focus to relaxing, easing the tension in his hips slightly. John wasn't going to do anything traumatic, and this was brilliant.

John was tender as he nuzzled and nipped at Sherlock's neck. He started with slow, gentle thrusts, groaning against Sherlock's collarbone. He couldn't help but whisper all the ways Sherlock was brilliant.

Sherlock closed his eyes, slowly relaxing under John. He swallowed hard, wanting to hold in to John without knowing if he could.

"C-can I- may I..." He reached up as though to wrap an arm around John.

"Of course you can. You can touch me however you'd like." John sped his thrusts slightly, gasping at the feel of Sherlock. "Christ, yes."

Sherlock slid an arm around John's back, holding on to him as John worked into him with a bit more force. He opened his eyes, looking up at John's face, utterly taken by the expression John was wearing. His own body was a mix of sensation he wasn't particularly able to identify, but that didn't matter. Right now, John looked like he was in heaven, and Sherlock was apparently putting him there. That was all he needed to know. 

John groaned as he worked into Sherlock over and over. Breathless little oaths left him as he shifted back to his knees, putting one of Sherlock's legs on his shoulder, opening him wider. His hand wrapped around Sherlock's cock and he started stroking him in time with his thrusts.

Sherlock tipped his head back, breathless as John shifted their position. "Oh, god," he groaned, throwing an arm over his face, unable to process what he was seeing with what he was feeling. He'd thought John's hand alone was some form of sorcery, but this, god _this_ was altogether of different measure. Soon he was trying to meet John thrust for thrust, moving with him, one hand sinking into his curls and pulling as he let his head fall to the side. 

"Fuck, Sherlock." John's thrusts grew harder, starting to rock the bed as he fucked Sherlock. His hand worked him harder as he murmured, "Going to take you to pieces. Christ, so beautiful." He groaned as he fucked Sherlock hard, angling himself to brush Sherlock's prostate.

Sherlock dropped his hand to John's forearm, holding on as John dissolved him into a complete mess. He was pleading with him, begging for more, harder, something, _anything_. A sense of near panic kicked in as he moved with John, knowing he needed something but no idea _what_ , pressure rising and building until he could hardly stand it. 

" _John_ ," he cried out, hooking a leg behind John's back, wanting more of him, greedy and wanting and confused. 

With a growl, John raked his nails along Sherlock's thigh. "You belong to me, Sherlock. You've always belonged to me. I've got you." 

John let himself go, fucking Sherlock roughly, his hand coming down on Sherlock's thigh with a smack. "Come apart for me, Sherlock." John's hips started to break rhythm as he tried to hold out for Sherlock. 

Sherlock spilled over the edge with a great shout, crying out John's name as he broke apart so hard his vision tunneled and he thought for a moment that perhaps his heart had stopped. And the absurd thought that it would be a good way to die flitted through his mind. He striped his own belly as lights cracked along his otherwise dark vision, the sting at his thigh shoving him so hard over the edge he could not breathe after shouting John's name. 

John groaned Sherlock's name as he watched, hips stuttering through a few more thrusts before he came hard, panting against Sherlock's leg. He murmured words of praise, slipping between English and French as he did. John nuzzled Sherlock's leg as he shuddered, riding the aftershocks of the orgasm and the way Sherlock looked beneath him

Sherlock managed one stuttering breath, and then another, eyes closed as his body began to mesh with his mind again. He did not move as he put his attention to breathing. He was warm, and brilliantly hurting, and so much more sated and calm than he'd ever remember being in his adult life. John was breathing against the inside of his ankle, and for a brilliant time there was nothing but a buzzing hum in his mind and the sound of their wild breathing. 

After a minute John gasped the condom and pulled out slowly. He binned the condom and crawled up beside Sherlock, wrapping him up in his arms. John nuzzled his face against Sherlock's curls, whispering to him, "I never stopped loving you."

Sherlock turned and tucked his face down against John's shoulder, needing several minutes before he was bold enough to try and speak. "I- I thought-" His voice cracked and he shook his head, shuddering and tucking in closer to John. 

John _loved him_. He _loved_ him. 

Sherlock did not know what to do. He tried to run that through his own image of himself, which was nearly impossible. "I- you as well," he breathed, "I love you as well." 

John took in a sharp breath. "Oh, thank God." He peppered Sherlock's head with kisses. "You are perfect. It's going to take time. We'll have to learn one another again but I will take all the time in the world to do so, Sherlock. Welcome home."

His hands were tender as he rubbed Sherlock's back and carded a hand through Sherlock's hair. "We're going to be alright. It won't be easy, but we're going to be alright."


End file.
